


4am Knows All My Secrets

by keycchan, Krit



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, canon typical ptsd, gentrification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krit/pseuds/Krit
Summary: “I believe in whatever gets you through the night. The night is the hardest time to be alive, and 4am knows all my secrets.”“Maybe they did what they had to do to live, and tried to get a little love and have a little fun before the darkness took them.”~  Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite





	4am Knows All My Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references real life issues such as Gentrification, and modern issues faced by the Indigenous population of the US.  
Bogue is something of a crime boss here, and his practices are not exactly that of the average land developer/property manager.  
Red Harvest's backstory as well as Denali's were going to be fleshed out more, but quite frankly, I didn't want to delve too much into issues I am not properly educated on, and didn't have the time to do adequate research. 
> 
> There are also scenes of Goodnight's memories of war, Sam's memories of his family dying, and Goodnight's ptsd/suicidal ideation.
> 
> Lots of graphic and deep dark suff here, guys. (But it does end on a hopeful note!)
> 
> Dead Dove. Do Not Eat.
> 
> ARTWORK BY KEYCCHAN  
FIC BY KRIT

~*~

The streetlights always seemed dim under the glow of the rest of the city. Goodnight didn’t know why they were even necessary. The concrete of the sidewalk was unforgiving beneath his feet. Night’s like this were always cold and unforgiving. The sounds of gunshots and men screaming and owls hooting clamoring inside his head.

_Point. Aim. Shoot._

He saw the flickering light of the broken Starbucks sign up ahead.

_Find the target. Aim for the head. Back of the skull. Between the eyes. Got that one in the neck. _

Sam looks up at him and smiles. That delighted grin that promises chaos. He stands as Goodnight approaches. Pulls him into a tight hug. He smells like motor oil. He was working on the car again today. They get their drinks and sit at the little bistro table outside. The cars roll by, loud and buzzing. It’s late. The black shadows of the night swirling behind the glowing streetlights and shop signs. Keeping the darkness at bay. For now. They sit in the light and they talk. They bump their feet against each other, and their smiles almost reach their eyes. The world is always a little less dark when Sam is around.

~*~

A crooked grin on a smart mouth. Goodnight’s presence always made something spark inside Sam. The intensity of his capacity for love. He desperate need to BE loved. He was an exposed, raw nerve that Sam just loved to pluck and poke at. To see how he would respond. Goodnight was broken in so many ways. As many ways as Sam. But those broken pieces were strong and sturdy. Holding fast against the darkness and the storm. His darkness met Sam’s in a flurry of passion, and in ebbing waves of lingering calm. They crashed into each other. They drifted apart. The only constant fact in Sam’s life.

_Broken bloody bodies. His mother’s empty eyes. His sister screaming. A rope around his neck._

Sam faced a world of darkness and injustice. Butting heads with an uncaring system. He longed for the freedom to take action his own way. But that wasn’t the way of a man of the law. Shouldn’t be, anyway. Shouldn’t be. Could be. His fingers itched to grab, and force, and choke. But he couldn’t touch the men that wronged him. A substitute would have to do. Sam wanted to punish someone. Goodnight wanted to be punished.

~*~

Cramped bathroom stalls in seedy dive bars. The pounding bassline through the static speakers as Sam pounds into him, hand around his throat. Goodnight begging _Harder! Faster!_ Sam making him take what he gives him. Goodnight’s face pressed into the wall. The smell of freshly applied cheap paint. The sound of Sam’s harsh breath in his ear. Feeling like he was dying and being reborn, over and over. Penance. Absolution. Pain and pleasure. Sam knows his sins. Sam is not a man who forgives. But he is a man who doles out justice.

~*~

_“They can’t make us leave.” Mama was a proud woman. When she put her foot down, it was nailed down. A raised eyebrow on a stern face. No means no, young man, and that’s final. Bart Bogue wanted to buy their house. Gentrification. A vile word whispered in hushed tones throughout the neighborhood. And now it was at his door. With an offer that was more of an insult. “They want to do what they will with this neighborhood, they can damn well do it around us. I own this house outright; the law is the law.”_

_The law is the law. But men like Bogue live outside the law. Men like Bogue send hired thugs to rape and torture and kill. Men who should’ve really made sure Sam was dead before they left. _

~*~

_One shot. Two shots. Head shot. Lights out. Goodnight. The Angel of Death has you under his wing. A split second. Alive. Dead. One man. Two men. Dead men. Goodnight Robicheaux, the United States Army’s top sharp shooter. Goodnight Robicheaux, the world’s most prolific mass murderer._

~*~

He wakes up screaming. He looks down and still sees the blood of the men he’s killed on his hands.

~*~

He wakes up screaming. He looks down and still sees the blood of his family on his hands.

~*~

Emma Cullen was a pretty little waif of a thing. But damn if she wasn’t one of the strongest people Sam had ever met. Her story was like his. Except it was her husband that paid for it. Her rage reminded Sam of his own. She owned a stall at the farmer’s market and had a little brother who eyed everyone suspiciously. Emma told Sam that Bogue’s men had beaten him pretty bad. Emma and Teddy were really the only people Sam interacted with willingly besides Goodnight. They kept him focused.

~*~

“You should hate me.”

“Why’s that, Goody?”

Laid out on the little slope of grass next to the Civic Center, with Goodnight’s head in his lap, Sam took a drag of his cigarette and tried to see if he could make out some stars.

“I’m a killer. I killed so many people. All I knew was what I was told. They could’ve lied to me. I could’ve killed innocent people, Sam.” Goodnight’s voice was quiet, thin and three octaves higher than normal. He was ramping up towards a panic attack. Sam grabbed the flask out of Goodnight’s jacket pocket and opened it before pressing it into his hand.

“It’s different.” He muttered harshly. “You’re not a murderer, Goody.”

“You know how good the scope on my gun was? I could see their faces. I could see their eyes. I can still see them.”

“You still hearing voices?”

“Sometimes.”

“The owl?”

“Once in a while.”

Sam sighed and placed a hand on Goodnight’s chest. Like that would protect him from his demons.

“You ever see that doctor the VA recommended?”

“Couldn’t make an appointment. Was on hold all day.”

Sam huffed, taking another drag of his cigarette and making a face when he smoked the filter. A group of loud and obnoxious teenagers walked past. Screeching and laughing, shoving each other. They both winced at the screaming.

~*~

Emma has plans. She talks in lofty hypotheticals. Making vague suggestions. But Sam sees right through her, every time.

He watched them for a while before walking up. Emma’s stern face with its strained attempt at a smile. Teddy’s flinching and shifting eyes. They were children. His sister’s age. He should’ve just left well enough alone. Left Emma to her plotting that would only lead to dead ends. But he couldn’t help but wonder. What if she could do it? What if she could find a way to get to Bogue? What if he really could have a shot at the bastard?

He walked up to the stall with a jovial grin and a warm hello. It wasn’t like they didn’t want the exact same thing he did.

~*~

They’re in Sam’s car and Goodnight has Sam’s cock halfway down his throat. Sam is rubbing his back, and playing with his hair, and telling him how good he is. Goodnight feels a spark of something pure and happy run down his spine. Only Sam can ever make that sound like the truth. Only Sam can ever make him feel like a human being worth of love. He wants to be worthy of Sam’s love. After Sam comes, he lifts Goodnight by his hair and kisses him slow and deep. Sticks his hand in Goodnight’s open jeans and strokes him off. Goodnight keens and whimpers, gasping out Sam’s name. It’s a busy street, but the windows are tinted. Other cars drift past them. People stroll by and the lights of the city shine in the darkness. The windows dim it all. And for all that the city bustles and moves around them, up against them, in that car, breathing into each other, there is nothing in the world but them. They both cling to this. These few brief moments of peace. Breathing in each other’s air, the noise and life of the city muffled around them. So close, but it can’t touch them. Wrapped up in each other. Safe. Loved.

~*~

Goodnight spends most of his days in bed. Living off his trust fund and the inheritance from his father. He has shares in the family business, but his brothers and sister take care of that, and he couldn’t really give half a fuck less about it. All he knows is that he has enough money to ensure that he never has to leave his bed if he doesn’t want to. He could live there. He could die there. And no one but Sam would mourn him. And even then, Sam was tough. He had lost so much, lost everything, and maybe it would be cruel for Goodnight to leave him, to be one more death on a list for the other man. But he was tough. He would move forward. His family, that was three kinds of something different. If Goodnight ate his own gun, Sam would grieve, and then he would move on. He would be okay. He would be fine. But then, Sam had taken Goodnight’s gun three weeks ago. Hidden it somewhere. Goodnight went back to sleep.

~*~

Emma’s new friend looks like the most dangerous child Sam has ever seen. He’s all solid muscle and righteous fury, but his face is so clearly so young. Not that much younger than Emma and Teddy, but still. Sam swallowed the guilt and listened to what the boy had to say. He was young, but he had experience. Years spent in South Dakota, helping organize and taking part in protests. Butting heads with a lot of powerful terrifying men. Emma said he’d been an activist since High School. Which really couldn’t have been that long ago. His name was Red Harvest. And he knew a thing or two about these kinds of fights. More importantly, as far as Sam was concerned, he knew a thing or two about Bogue’s left-hand man. Denali. Former FBI. Well known among his people, and not for anything good. The rage on Red Harvest’s face when he talked about him said more than his words could. This was Red’s personal stake in this fight.

~*~

Goodnight wonders fleetingly if he’ll be disappointed when the local Starbucks fixes the broken sign. It’s flickering light, fighting for its life is oddly comforting to him in the darkness. He stares at it, unable to make himself feel stupid for feeling such a strong kinship to an inanimate shop sign.

“You with me, Goody?”

Goodnight blinks back at Sam, confused for a moment. “I… Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”

Sam eyed Goodnight wearily. Goody couldn’t blame him. He knew what he looked like. The dark bags under his eyes getting worse every day. The pale skin stretched over sharp bone, like tissue paper ready to tear. He had become something fragile. Something desperate to break. It was obvious that he wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating. His system nothing but caffeine, alcohol, tobacco, and whatever else was in those ‘herbal cigarettes’ that his friend at the VA kept giving him with the promise that it would “keep him on the level”. To be fair, they did take the edge off. Or at least some of it.

Goodnight felt like he was all edge these days. Teetering on the blade of one of Billy’s fancy knives. The other man was the closest thing he had to a friend other than Sam. Quiet, but funny, and well aware of just how terrified everyone was of him. There was a rumor that he was ex-SSD. Goodnight never bothered to ask. Billy was a Marine who didn’t require anything from Goodnight but his company. And that was all he needed to know.

“I was saying that it might be a good idea to go out to Vegas for a few days. Just the two of us. Get some real rest. Have some fun. Hell, the drive alone should do us some good.”

“Yeah? And what contact do you have to meet in Vegas?” Goodnight quirked an eyebrow and gave a tired smirk. “I know you Sam. I might just be the one person left on earth that you can’t play. So, who are we meeting?”

Sam sighed and gave a weary chuckle. “Some grifter. But apparently, he knows everybody, and Emma trusts him. He’s got intel.”

“Oh! A _grifter_! That sounds safe and smart.” Goodnight rolled his eyes, and took another sip of his now melted frape. “You are in no risk of getting screwed over.”

“Well that’s why I need my boy there to have my back.” Sam grinned.

“You know I’m not fit for much anymore.”

“I don’t need you to do anything, Goody. Just stand behind me, wearing a holster and a menacing look on your face.”

“Ah. A solid plan. Nothing that could go wrong.”

~*~

To be fair, Vegas had its perks. Emma’s contact paid for their room. Or he owned the hotel. Something like that. It was a damn nice room. Giant bathtub big enough for five with jets. And the bed… Goodnight had to admit it was a ridiculous luxury he wished he could take home. He burrowed himself into the blankets, feeling himself sinking into the softest mattress he’d ever encountered. He had always been annoyed and confused regarding people comparing beds to clouds. But in that moment, he understood.

~*~

Sam’s mother always liked to use the word ‘scoundrel’ for any man she didn’t like. Sam, himself, had never really bothered to think to hard about the word. Or what an actual scoundrel might look or act like, or actually be. Five minutes with Joshua Faraday, and Sam’s understanding of the word had become crystal clear. The man radiated an energy that gave the impression of an ancient trickster god. One look at him, and you knew he was no one to be trusted. But you found yourself trusting him anyway. Taken in by that easy grin and relaxed demeanor. Though, the man standing behind him was certainly intimidating enough for the two of them. He didn’t bother to introduce the man, but had called him Vas at one point. Sam could feel Goodnight standing behind him in a similar fashion. Faraday was interesting. And he seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. He didn’t sound concerned when Sam pointed out that if Bogue’s people learned that he sold them out, there would be hell to pay.   
  
“No worse than anything I’ve come out the other side of before.”   
  
They passed a bottle of expensive whiskey back and forth between them, and after the business was concluded, Faraday invited them to stay.   
  
“Our men can join us, and we can have ourselves a friendly game of cards! I think we’re all friends now. Ain’t we friends, Vas?” He turned to grin at the man behind him, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the corner of his lip turning up. “Vasquez here is a wiley one when it comes to poker, don’t let him hustle ya.”  
  
Sam shrugged and looked back at Goodnight. The other man didn’t see the harm, and so, they all sat around the table, playing various types of poker. At some point, during maybe their third bottle, Faraday suggested that they relocate to his and Vasquez’s room. _Their_ room. Ah. Oh! Sam and Goodnight stared at each other for a moment before grinning.   
  
The room (suite) was nothing short of ostentatious. The first thing Faraday did- second, after attacking Vasquez with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue- was go over to one of the dressers and pull a tray out of one of the drawers. Sam and Goodnight had done cocaine a grand total of once in their lives. In the bathroom at a rave when they were twenty. Sam has been drunk, and Goodnight was rolling on E. This time, though... Faraday held out the tray, offering to his guests first, and Goodnight took it casually, snorting two lines before offering it to Sam. The casual nature of the movement allowing him an opportunity to decline if he wanted to. Sam did a single line and handed it off to Vasquez. He didn’t bother keeping track after that. Opting instead to grab Goodnight by the throat and shove his tongue in his mouth. Sam was not a possessive man. But he knew he would be handing his Goody off into someone else’s care tonight, and he wanted to make sure he remembered where he was grounded. 

“Well, damn, but that’s pretty.” He heard Faraday whistle nearby.

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” Sam asked quietly.

“_Yes.”_ Goodnight hissed, nodding his head. He was already starting to get keyed up.

“Why don’t you go show Vasquez how good you are? I wanna get to know our host.”

There was something to be said for spontaneous drug fueled orgies. Sam was impressed with how Vasquez handled Goodnight. Firm and harsh, but almost languid. A passionate, subtle show of force. He led, and expected Goodnight to follow. It was always nice seeing Goody from this angle. Back arched, mouth stuffed, hair mussed and held in a tight grip. That sleek ripcord line of his neck.

Sam buried himself in Faraday’s throat as he watched the other two. The con man seemed to enjoy Sam’s brand of treatment, and Sam was happy to oblige. Goodnight’s eyes were wide and gassy. He looked like he was floating. Desperate and needy. Not just for Vasquez to give him what he wanted. But for the other man to take. To use him and make him feel like he was made for something, anything, other than death. He had once told Sam that he would rather be a whore than a murderer, and that being a soldier was like being both at once.

The floor to ceiling window at the other end of the room gave an impressive view of the city. Black and neon. Gold and Chrome. It felt like a different world. It felt like home.

Sam fucked Faraday over the back of the sofa and stared out into the swirling abyss of color. He was getting closer to everything he’d wanted for years now. All he dreamt about. A sneaking chill ran down his spine as the thought occurred to him that once it was over, he would have to figure out what to do next. He chased the thought away by slamming so hard into Faraday that the couch squeaked and groaned beneath them. He had a suspicion that the younger man didn’t mind.

Goodnight felt his mind dart to from every thought it was possible to have. All the while, not actually processing any thoughts at all. He felt everything and nothing. He was suspended in time and space, lost to sensation, pleasure and pain. The taste and feel of Vasquez, hot and heavy on his tongue. The rough steady pressure of his hand around Goody’s throat as he pulled him up and kissed him with the force of a sucker punch. The man was rough, but careful. Hurting Goodnight in only the best ways. Letting him drift on the edges of his mind where the voices couldn’t find him.

The trip did both of them some good.

~*~

“Penny for your thoughts?”  
  
Goodnight scoffed. “My thoughts are worth at least a dollar.”  
  
Sam laughed. “Only because you overuse those five dollar words.”  
  
Goodnight chuckled and nodded slightly. “I suppose that’s fair. Wasn’t thinking anything. Flies and fluff, that’s all that’s up there.” Goodnight was laying upside down on Sam’s couch. His legs hooked up over the back of it, with his head hanging off the edge of the seat. “Do you think angels are benevolent or apathetic?”  
  
“Goody, you do realize I have been awake for all of two hours, and this is only my first cup of coffee, yes?” Sam grumbled good naturedly as he slipped the hand not holding said coffee, up Goodnight’s shirt, rubbing idly at his stomach. “I think it depends on the breed of angel. The soldiers? Archangels and all that? I think they have to be apathetic. There’s a certain amount of....” He sighed and trailed off, knowing exactly where Goodnight was going with this and why, and wanting to avoid that trajectory. “Guardian Angels, though. I mean, they’re probably the embodiment of compassion and love. Though, I pity the poor cherub responsible for watching over your clumsy ass!” He laughed and tweaked one of Goodnight’s nipples. The other man yelped and giggled, writhing under the lazy attack.

“I am not clumsy!” He protested. Sam scoffed and pinched the other nipple, harder this time.

“Not two weeks ago, I watched you saunter into Starbucks- the location we go to twice a damn week, I might add! And trip over the little step that you know is there and have stepped over a million times. But you were so focused on shaking your ass-“

“Because I knew you were staring at it! Gotta keep you interested!”

“If I’m already staring, I think it’s safe to say, I’m interested!” He skirted his fingertips lightly along his ribs, pulling gasping laughter from the other man.

“Maybe you’re my guardian angel.” Goodnight chuckled warmly. “Even if you are a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a pain in the ass!”

“Promises, promises!”

~*~

Some days were better than others. But they were few and far between. They were bright and shining like the neon glow in the night. And Goody was grateful. But he couldn’t hold on to those fleeting, elusive feelings. More often than not, even Sam’s smile couldn’t chase away the darkness.

~*~

Goodnight prowled around his apartment for an hour. Two. Three. He lost track of time. Lost in the silent rooms and his noisy head. Memories and nightmares blending together to pick him apart. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. He downed a bottle of whiskey. Took another sleeping pill. Stared in the bathroom mirror for a good ten minutes. Found another bottle of whiskey. He wandered his way back to the bathroom, picking up the bottle of sleeping pills and shaking it a few times. His mind seemed to quiet. Just a low thrum in his ears as he made his decision. He picked up his phone and hovered over Sam’s number. But he didn’t know what he would say. What he could say. The idea of a last goodbye with the one person he loved most… It was too much. And Goodnight was nothing if not a coward. But he thought it right to leave something behind. Someone should know. There weren’t many numbers in his phone. There weren’t many people in his life. His thumb paused over a name. Billy Rocks with a little knife emoji next to it. If pressed to really sit and think about it, Billy was the second most important person in his life. The only person besides Sam who would really mourn him. He pressed the number and listened to it ring. Listened to Billy’s clipped voicemail recording.

“Hey, Bill. I know you’re sleepin. That’s good. Didn’t wanna wake ya. I just… I guess I just wanted to let you know that I figured it out. How it needs to be. What I gotta do. What’s best. The only way to make amends. Fair’s fair, right? Eye for an eye? Sam took all my guns, so I guess this’ll have to do. I just… I want ya to know... You’re my best friend... Sam, he’s, that’s… It’s a whole other thing, ya know? Deeper. Different. I love him. I really do. I love you, but it’s different, ya know. You’re my best friend…. I said that already. You’ve tried so hard. Tried to help me... I know that... And you did, you really did. You can’t feel guilty, okay? You couldn’t’ve stopped this. Oh, I’m gonna miss you. You should get to know Sam better. You’ll really get along. And he’ll actually get your sense of humor! Nobody gets you... I get you. I… He’ll get you. He ain’t really got anybody else. And I know you don’t either. And all I had was the two of ya...” Goodnight sighed and took another swig from his bottle, pausing for a moment. “I’m okay, Billy. Really. Even just makin up my mind, I feel a lot better. I know this is what’s right. My hands’ve stopped shakin. It’s gonna be okay. And wherever I end up, well… We all get what we deserve in the end, right? I just wanted to say goodbye. Figured I should. You’re a good man. And I was glad to know you. Goodbye, Billy. Take care.”

Goodnight ended the call and tossed his phone aside. Slumped on the floor, sitting back against the tub, he washed down the bottle of sleeping pills with his bottle of whiskey. He thought of Sam and Billy. Thought of how they smiled. Thought of how Billy never judged him. How Sam always understood him. He thought of Sam’s face. His eyes. His voice. He hoped they didn’t miss him too much.

~*~

Sam moved through the underground parking garage on silent feet. Swift. Determined. He could see Bogue and two of his lackeys headed for his car. He began to sing. Soft and quiet, but echoing in the cavernous concrete.

_“Bring them in…”_

The men looked around and Bogue motioned for them to find the source. One shot. Two shots. Ringing loud, deafening in the empty space. Just the two of them now. Moment of truth.

“I was told I had something of an admirer.” Bogue called out. “Someone just dying to meet me. Chisolm, was it? Do I know that name?”

“You’ll know it from your obituary.” Sam’s voice was calm and steady as he stepped into Bogue’s line of sight.

“Lincoln, Kansas.” He stated, matter-of-fact. “Good people. Hard working folks just trying to make a life for themselves. Till you came in. Just like what happened here.”

Bogue scoffed. “If god didn’t want em sheared, he wouldn’t’ve made em sheep.”

As the crooked weasel drew his gun, Sam shot it right out of his hand. “Pick it up!” He shouted. When the other man went to do so, Sam shot it again. Bogue tried to turn and run, and was promptly shot in the leg. Bogue fell to the ground and rolled over to face Sam.

“Please!” He gasped out, his voice weak and reedy. “I’m sorry! I’ve wronged you.”

Sam walked up to him and held out his hand. “I want you to pray with me. Ask for forgiveness.”

Bogue took his hand with fear and trepidation in his eyes. He didn’t know what this man and all his icy fury intended, but he knew his chances weren’t good.

“Close your eyes and pray.” Sam continued. “Pray for my mother, that your men raped. Pray for my sisters, that your men murdered.” He took off the scarf around his neck, revealing the brutal scar that ran along his throat. “Did they pray when they put the rope around my neck?” His voice had become a low, harsh whisper. Rage and pain seeping through every part of him in a slow steam, ready to burst.

And burst it did. In one movement, he wrapped his scarf around Bogue’s own neck, pulling it tight as he knelt in front of him. Staring deep into the eyes of his worst nightmare, Sam began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Bogue’s choking gurgles for breath building the adrenaline and righteous hate inside of him. He stared into those eyes, savoring the fear he found there, watching for the life to fade from them.

He didn’t see Bogue scrambling to retrieve the small pistol from his ankle holster.

But he heard the shot ring out in echoes around him. The shocked look on Bogue’s face mirrored his own. The man became limp, slumped in his hands, no longer fighting for life. Dead. Sam looked down and he saw the gun then. Saw all at once what had almost happened. Letting go, he stood and turned.

Emma Cullen stood by the stairwell. Hunting rifle in her hands. Held up still, aimed at nothing but a corpse now. Her face was unreadable. But Sam knew all too well what she was feeling. So many different things at once.

He went up to her, gently pried the gun from her hands. Nodded in thanks and acknowledgement of the completion of their shared goal, and headed to the elevator. Emma stood and stared at the empty body a moment longer before following.

~*~

When they finally made it above ground and outside, Sam’s phone lit up with notifications. Missed calls. Voice mails. Texts. All from a number he didn’t recognize.

**This is Billy. I’m worried about Goody. Headed over there now.**

**… Ambulance is on its way…**

**… At the hospital…**

**… It’s bad…**

**… Please.**

Sam’s blood ran cold.

~*~

Goodnight woke to the beeping of machines, the smell of sterilization, and the sight of the love of his life looking haggard and distraught in a chair next to him.

“Sam?” He croaked out.

Tears welled in Sam’s eyes as a smile cracked his fallen face. “Goody! Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I thought… I just…”

“I know, baby. But it’s okay now.” Sam grasped Goody’s hand in both of his. “_I’m_ sorry.” He countered. “I was so deep in my own pain, that I didn’t let myself see how bad yours was. I think a part of me was willing to…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I figured it out. It’s done. And all that’s left is… The rest of my life. It didn’t fix anything, it didn’t solve anything. And I almost died trying. I would’ve died. Would’ve failed. I let my pain and rage blind me so much that my whole world went up in flames.”

Goodnight smiled softly. “What we lost in the fire…”

Sam returned the smile. “We’ll find in the ashes.”

“I think… I think I’m done.” Goodnight told him. “I’m done running. I’m so tired. But this… It didn’t help. It didn’t fix it, so maybe… Maybe you’re right. The rest of our lives. We tried it our way. Maybe now it’s time to… To try it the right way? Or whatever passes for the right way these days. Therapy, and self care, and friendships, and all that bullshit.”

Sam laughed. “My buddy Jack runs an unofficial group therapy support thing at his house not too far away. And it was friendship what saved your life.”

Goodnight sighed in realization. “Billy.” He chuckled. “I should’ve known that son of a bitch doesn’t sleep. He’s a good man.”

“I think I’m gonna stay in touch with Emma and the other kids. That Red Harvest has a lot of worthy causes he fights for. Might look into doing my part with those. Try to do some good in this world.”

“I like the sound of that. I think I’d like to join you.”

“You think a couple of broken men can make it in this fucked up world?”

“I think so.” Goodnight squeezed Sam’s hand. “Together.”


End file.
